


Payment In Kind

by inamac



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Boot Worship, F/M, Foot Fetish, Frottage, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-17
Updated: 2009-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What on earth is the point in having a fetish if you don't enjoy indulging it?" Hermione Granger to Lucius Malfoy.</p><p>(This takes place 24 hours after the events of 'A Private Fitting'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payment In Kind

**Payment in Kind  
by Ina**

8pm, Tuesday 

Apparition to a known location should have been easy, except when the location held memories of pain and humiliation that made the mind reject the detached mental picture that made apparition possible. In the end Hermione took the train to Salisbury and rode her broomstick the last few miles to the gates of Malfoy Manor. She arrived punctually as the clock in the nearby church tower chimed eight. As if prompted by the sound, the double gates swung open to reveal the gravelled curve of a driveway vanishing between high yew hedges, and her host.

If Lucius Malfoy was surprised by the manner of her arrival he did not show it. He was waiting for her seated in the velvet comfort of an open barouche drawn by a pair of pure white thestrals.

She couldn't help but stare. Used as she was to the Hogwarts carriages she had never seen the creatures that drew them. It was a stark reminder of how much death she had seen during the last year of the war. And how much had been due to this man.

Lucius caught her wary look at the beasts and his expression softened. "Do my thestrals bother you? I know that some wizards find them disturbing, though it is more for the bad memories they bring than for themselves. I assure you, I did not intend to distress you. This is simply the most convenient way for my guests to reach the house - without disturbing my wards."

Hermione swallowed, and nodded. "You're right. They do bring bad memories."

"Then you had better join me - from this seat you won't be able to see them."

The coachman, a surprisingly tall and very human-looking elf, jumped from his box to unfold the steps and swing open the door to allow her to mount into the carriage. As he bowed to his task her eyes widened in surprise at his garb. At first she had thought that he was wearing some sort of leather bondage harness but closer inspection revealed that he was clad, like all house-elves, in the detritus of his workplace; pieces of horse harness, saddle and bridle leather buckled and woven into a loose waistcoat and a sort of kilt. She averted her eyes quickly, but knew, from the brief twitch of Lucius's lips, that he had caught her brief appraisal and read her thought. He said nothing though, merely shifting to allow her to settle into the deeply upholstered seat beside him, and giving the order for her broomstick and packages to be stowed under the box. The coachman obeyed the order swiftly and efficiently before returning to his place and, with no word or sign that Hermione could detect, setting the thestrals in motion.

As the carriage lurched she found herself with her hand on her host's knee. He closed his leather-gloved fingers over her wool-mittened ones, steadying her as the vehicle picked up speed, wheels crunching over gravel.

"I do find," he drawled, "that carriages are much more contusive to intimate discourse than Muggle cars."

Hermione extracted her hand and sat up straight. "That depends on the car," she said.

He nodded. "And on the carriage. Perhaps I should have sent Higgs with the dog-cart instead? But I'm not sure that I could trust you not to - seduce - him away from me. And there is no one else who can handle my thestrals and horses so well."

"He's still a slave," she said, almost from force of habit.

"On the contrary. He is a prisoner."

Startled, she turned to meet his eyes. His expression was quite calm, as matter-of-fact as Snape had been when explaining the procedure for a simple potion.

"Oh dear. In all your campaigning for house elves, did you never learn their history? Well, Dumbledore never did pay enough attention to the proper teaching of magical history for all his determination to open our culture to muggle-borns."

Hermione bit off her natural retort, aware that there was some truth in the accusation, even if his perspective was warped. What she had learned of wizarding culture had been gleaned largely from her friends, and her own reading. And that had been restricted to what was available in the Hogwarts library. "Tell me," she said.

He did not reply immediately, taking time to examine her expression. Eventually satisfied, he nodded. "The elves, like the centaurs and the goblins, and most of the higher magical races, have their own laws and their own courts. Elves who transgress are sentenced not to incarceration - which would be wasteful of resources and their own talents - but to servitude to a wizarding family, under an ancient contract with the elves."

She looked at him with surprise. "You're a gaoler?"

"My great, great grandfather was a gaoler. Elvish punishments work on a much longer timespan than human or wizard lifetimes. Usually some multiple of seven - days, or years, or decades. Eventually, when the sentence is served, they return to their people. And in the meantime - well, the Manor is a much pleasanter place than Azkaban. Trust me. I know."

She bit back her retort. She had not found Malfoy Manor a pleasant place to be imprisoned, but she had spent barely a day there - Lucius had been imprisoned in Azkaban for a year. She was silent and thoughtful for the remainder of the journey, barely paying attention as the carriage wound round the outskirts of the estate and her host pointed out landmarks, features and follies that, in other circumstances, would have fuelled her curiosity and interest. At length they rounded the last turn in the path and the carriage pulled up under an arch of warm red brick surmounted by a many-handed wizard's clock.

"It keeps track of the livestock," Lucius explained as the only two moving hands clicked from 'Park Drive' to 'Stable Yard', and the elf pulled the thestrals to a halt and jumped down to fold down the step and open the carriage door for his master.

Lucius stepped down and turned to take Hermione's hand to steady her as she descended. He did not miss her indrawn breath as she looked up at the house. Nor her fleeting expression of relief that this was not the imposing porticoed entrance through which she and her friends had been dragged in the last days of the war but a tangle of warm red brick, sloping tiled roofs and snaking lead piping, all overlaid with the twisted grey stems and green leaves of an aged creeping vine. Only the tiny snapping teeth in the depths of the cream flowers indicated that this was a wizard's home.

"The servants' entrance?" she asked, as they crossed the yard to the old iron-studded door.

"The family entrance," he said, as it swung back in response to a casual gesture of his gloved hand. "I thought that you might have unpleasant memories of the main reception hall. I certainly do."

They relinquished their cloaks to a waiting house elf and he motioned her to follow as he strode off into the depths of the house.

The room into which he led her, through a maze of panelled passages and sinuous staircases, was a bright solar, overlooking the sweep of the formal gardens, and furnished with a scatter of mismatched antique chairs, tables and sofas.

"Tea?" he offered, indicating the silver-laden tray on one of the side tables.

She opened her mouth, uncertain, even as she did so, of what was going to come out of it, but he forestalled her. "No," he said. "You didn't come here to exchange pleasantries, did you? I confess that I am surprised that you came at all." he gave a sardonic smile. "Gryffindor courage. My late... associate... underestimated it. I try to learn from his mistakes."

"Have you learned from your own?" She spat out the retort, and regretted it instantly, but he was still smiling.

"Oh the Sorting Hat was certainly right about you. Now, shall we see what you have tucked into that splendid little bag of yours?"

Grateful for something to do she pulled the bag towards her and flicked open the clasp, reaching in to extract the boxes that she had selected what now seemed a million years ago in the shop storeroom. His grey eyes widened slightly as the fourth and fifth boxes emerged, but he made no comment.

More confident now that she had a familiar task she lifted the lid from the narrowest box, revealing a tangle of scarlet leather and laces. "You asked me to bring something red in my size," she said. "I thought that these..."

A slender hand reached past her and into the box, drawn by irresistible temptation. He ran a snake-ringed finger the length of the gleaming hide, before gathering it into his hand and lifting it from its tissue nest. "You really do have surprisingly good instincts," he said.

"For a Muggle?" she asked.

"For a fetishist." He raised the boot to his face, pressing the leather-sheathed metal of the stiletto against palely stubbled cheek. Hermione heard her own blood pounding in her ears as she watched his skin flush from that point of contact - pale flesh, scarlet leather, and a lock of white hair caught in contrast.

"Very good..." He closed his eyes, white lashes fanning against his cheek as the steel point glided down the flesh, along his jaw, down his throat, along the line of collar-bone - and rang against the clasp of his high-collared robe.

"I..." She could not stop watching. The air in the bright room seemed charged with magic beyond control of any wand. Then he opened his eyes, and met hers.

"I think it is my turn to ask you to, as you so genteelly put it, 'get 'em off', Hermione." He held the boot out to her, flat on the palm of his hand, and she took it, moving to sit in the upright Jacobean chair that overlooked the garden.

She stripped off her shoes and stockings deftly, knowing that, for him, the act of lacing on those boots would be far more erotic than removing mundane clothing.

This time she did not have her shoehorn, and she was startled when he knelt beside the chair and reached out with his own hand to ease the leather round her heel. She caught her lip between her teeth, using the pain to subdue arousal, and reached for the laces, conscious that his eyes were following every movement. Her own hands shook a little as she threaded the red cord through the first two eyelets and measured the centre of the length. He did not miss the tremour. Gently he took the ends of the laces from her, running his fingers along their silky length. She watched in fascination, entranced. His fingers were quite as elegant as his toes, and the movement was delicate with the promise of more intimate touch. Without looking up from his concentration on the boot he gave a soft laugh and a quiet command.

"Breathe," he said.

She obeyed, long and deep, letting the breath out in a sigh and leaning her head back against the chair as he began the methodical, rhythmic task of threading each lace through its hole, twisting it flat and pulling it taut, hole by hole, easing the leather over her knee, and ending in a double looped knot to hold it tight around her thigh.

When he had finished he ran his hand up over the laces, and she heard his own breath catch. For a moment the room was quiet, only the sound of birds filtered through the open fanlight of the window. Then he smiled up at her and reached for the second boot, fastening it far more quickly before sitting back on his heels and looking up.

"Comfortable?" he asked, unable to hide a twitch of lips and eyebrow that reminded her of the moment in the shop when she had asked him the same question.

She pushed herself to her feet, as he had, less than forty eight hours before, and took a moment to find her balance. Her first step nearly pitched her onto her knees. She grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself.

"You need to lean back a little," he advised, "Take small steps, and keep your shoulders over your heels."

She took his advice, moving with a little more confidence round the chair, and across to the window, conscious of his eyes following every step, and of the way the boots arched her foot and slimmed her calves. She forced herself to concentrate on moving as he had advised and not to think of his own narrow feet and strong calves sheathed in their turn in green snakeskin. It was only when she turned, at the warded entrance to the room, that she dared to look again at her host and found that, while he had indeed been watching her, he had not been idle.

He had shed his over-robe and had either dispensed with nether garments or removed them, revealing the same long tunic he had worn in the shop - only now the brocade was unhooked, and the white shirt beneath unlaced from throat to thigh, revealing a strip of tanned flesh over hard muscle. The two halves of the unfastened serpentine belt buckle dangled from their carriers, framing pale hair trailing to a cock concealed in shadow. She swallowed, not sure whether it was with fear or anticipation, as he beckoned her forward.

"Very good," he said, reaching up to her throat and starting to deftly unbutton her blouse. "But such boots are not meant for walking, but for admiration."

She swallowed, flushed under his hands. "I thought..."

"No, Hermione. You didn't think. We share an instinct, you and I. You knew I would want to touch - as I know what it is that you want. And I promise that you will have it. Now," He finished stripping her clothes from her and threw them onto the window seat, "Lie down."

Obediently she lowered herself to the rug, letting her gaze fall as she did so, from crotch, to thighs, to calves, and finally to the long, narrow, beautiful feet that had lured her here. With the thick wool pile of priceless Aubusson under her naked shoulders she watched as he steadied himself with one hand on the carved back of the chair and lifted his foot to place it deliberately between her breasts.

There was no weight behind it. She let out a long breath and fixed her eyes on his. Anticipation then. And... desire.

He must have felt her stomach muscles flutter and tense under his heel. He smiled, very lazily, and began to flex his toes between her breasts, a tiny massaging movement that made her gasp and arch up against the restraint. Automatically she drew her leather-clad knees up on either side of his naked leg.

He shook his head. "Not yet," he said, softly.

The movement continued, until each of her nipples stood proud and pink on either side of the massaging toes. She moaned, and arched into the movement, as he slowly ran the side of his foot up over the edge of her collarbone to cup her cheek. She turned her face and pressed her lips to the inside of the arch before opening them to lick delicately at the warm flesh.

There was a flutter of movement under her tongue and she glanced up to see him watching her with an expression of controlled concentration, his lips thinned, eyes narrowed. She knew that he was hiding his natural reaction. Lucius Malfoy was ticklish. She grinned. Oh how she wanted to see that controlled composure break. She stopped her teasing, pushed herself up onto her elbows, and groped across the carpet for her discarded wand.

"Accio peacock feather!"

There was a brief, childlike scream from the direction of the parterre and a long white tail-feather came sailing in through the fanlight and landed in her opened hand.

The pause had allowed her victim to catch his breath and his balance. His voice held its habitual arrogance as he leaned closer. "Miss Granger, I did not give you permission to molest my livestock."

"No? But you promised that I might do... this." Sitting up, spike heels digging into the carpet, and red leather preventing the movement of his leg, she turned her attention again to his foot, running the edge of the feather lightly along his instep. His toes curled under her hand and he swallowed, turning his head so that she could see the taut line of his jaw. She was mesmerised - torn between the desire to continue her ministrations with the feather, and to reach up, cup that tempting line in her palm, and turn his face to claim his mouth with hers. Her vagina pulsed, muscles clenching with anticipation and desire. Belatedly she remembered his admonition to breathe, and returned to her self-imposed task, running the tips of the feather lightly over his foot, up over the arch, across the ankle, down between the toes - until at last it kicked out of her hand, as she got her wish and Lucius Malfoy exploded into laughter.

It was, like all laughter, infectious, and she soon found herself grinning, and then laughing outright, in unison. It was at least five minutes before she gained enough control to panic about the consequences of what she had done. Lucius had sprawled back into the chair, his breath still coming in short bursts, and his clothes and hair dishevelled by his reaction. One long leg was stretched out in front of him, the other hooked over the arm of the chair.

"That," he gulped, curling a hand around the curtain of hair that had fallen into his eyes, and flicking it back with a practiced motion that was uniquely his own, "That was very foolish of you Hermione."

She swallowed, and pressed back into the carpet, very still, unsure of what she was waiting for - a blow or dismissal. He leaned over her, grey eyes sparkling.

"And very brave."

She met the gaze steadily, and took her Gryffindor courage in both hands as she replied: "What on earth is the point in having a fetish if you don't enjoy indulging it?"

Lucius examined her expression for a moment, then grinned. "A very refreshing and thoroughly logical view. Just what I would have expected of you, Hermione. Now, if we might indulge _my_ fetish?"

"Oh." She bit her lip. Of course."

She climbed to her feet, slightly unsteadily, and crossed the room to the table where she had left the remaining boxes. The lids were askew; he must have looked into them when she had been trying her paces earlier. She was not surprised; what man with his fetish could have resisted a peek? She reached for the box with the green snakeskin which he had ordered, then hesitated. He noticed. His voice, from the depths of the chair, was rich with amusement and anticipation.

"I will abide by your choice, Hermione. You have excellent taste."

She swallowed. It was no choice at all. The green had been his selection, as, arguably, were the red pair that matched the ones she wore. She took the lid from the third box and lifted the pair of black patent, crotch-high, open-toed, six-inch stilettos from their tissue paper nest, laces and buckles dangling. When she turned back he was still grinning, only now it was feral.

"Excellent taste," he repeated, as she returned to kneel before him.

She bent to her task. It was almost a crime, sheathing that foot, those toes, in smooth dark leather. Unlike the ones she wore, the boots she had selected for him had two lines of fastenings, buckles up the outside of the leg, laces up the inner. The laces were already loosely fastened but the buckles, larger than the ones on the sandals that he had bought in the shop, needed to be fastened from ankle to thigh. It made it easy for him to slip his foot into the throat of the boot, and for her to draw the twin edges of leather over the long tongue and buckle the straps together evenly.

Having fastened the buckles on the first boot she made to tighten the laces, but he forestalled her, swinging his other leg down off the arm of the chair and onto the floor. "Buckles first," he said. "And then we'll see where the laces lead us."

They led her, of course, inexorably and inevitably, to his crotch. The back of her hand could not help but brush the warmth of his penis as she crossed the laces over pristine leather and looped and tied them on the outside of his thigh. By the time she completed the tightening of the second set of laces the leather was marked with a dribble of pale pre-cum and though his fingers were cupped loosely around his erection, she knew that it had been the movement of her own fingers, slowly up his calves and thighs as she adjusted the laces that had brought him to arousal, as it had been the sight of the flexing of his long toes through the open end of the boot that had brought her to hers.

She knew (who better?) that he could be wholly gratified by the sight of her in the red boots, by the feel of the patent leather caressing his own long legs. It could be enough for both if them. But why should it be, when she could offer so much more? She made her decision and reached out with her tongue to lick the leather clean.

Above her, his breath caught, and his hand, and what it contained, twitched against her cheek. Her brief grimace of distaste changed to a calculating grin. She drew back and stood, meeting his eyes as she straddled his extended right leg and pushed the knee of her own up into his fork, slowly moving the ridge of the laces up against his balls and rapidly reddening cock.

His indrawn breath became a groan and his hand closed around the back of her calf, holding the boot in place as he shifted his position slightly and began frotting in earnest.

She had seen him incoherent with laughter, now she saw him on the cusp of orgasm, head thrown back to again expose that line of jaw that tempted her almost as much as his toes. This time she gave in to temptation, reaching out to cup it in her hand, leaning forward to run her lips along it, to bury her nose into his hair and her tongue into his ear.

He swallowed with reaction, adam's apple bobbing against her tongue as she moved down, laid her cheek against his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat, the warmth of his flesh, the fine lawn of his shirt and the smooth silk and rough slub of the brocade tunic a symphony of textures against her soft breast and hard nipple.

He was all texture, all power, and, for this tiny instant of time, all _hers_.

Oh yesss. She slid down further, riding his leg, leaving her own trail of warm wetness against the slick leather, her lips passing across navel to cock as she reached her goal, pressed her aching clitoris against the arch of his foot, and rode herself to orgasm on the thrust of his confined toes.

=====

8am, Wednesday 

Hermione was awakened by the sound of curtain rings rattling along their rod as someone drew back the heavy damask to let morning light flood into the bedroom. She blinked, momentarily dazzled by the light, and disorientated by the room. It was quite unfamiliar to her.

The man who had opened the curtains with a wave of his wand, and who now sat at the small breakfast table on the far side of the room, pouring tea from a silver pot, was not at all unfamiliar. Lucius Malfoy looked perfectly controlled, not a hair out of place, the folds of his Chinese silk house robe neat and elegant.

She shifted against the sheets, waking aches to remind herself that last night had not been a dream.

"It is quite real, I assure you, Hermione."

She glared at him. "Are you reading my mind?"

"Alas no. Legilimency is not one of my talents. If it were I would know whether or not to offer you sugar." He raised an eyebrow in query.

"One," she said, looking around and finding her wand lying on the bedside table, the clothes she had worn last night neatly hung on a clothes stand, and a silk dressing gown, similar to his own, laid across the bed. She seized the latter and donned it, then rose to join him at the breakfast table.

"Thank you," she said, lifting the cup to her lips and sipping carefully.

"I could hardly allow you to fly home in the middle of the night. And the Manor is over-endowed with spare bedrooms - it seemed a pity not to offer you one. Besides, I wanted to talk to you."

Well, they had barely spoken last night. She had half-expected this. She nodded, took up a slice of toast and started to butter it. "I'm listening" she said, feigning a calm she did not feel.

His cup rattled in the saucer as he set it down and leaned back in his chair. It seemed that he was as anxious as she about this conversation. She heard him take a long breath before he spoke again.

"Miss Granger, I did not lie at my trial. I have never used an Unforgivable. It is my greatest regret that I cannot say the same for Draco. In forcing my son to do what I would not the Dark Lord sought to punish me."

Hermione looked sceptical. "At the World Cup..."

He shook his head. "_Morsmordore_ is not an Unforgiveable. Unwise, perhaps. The intention was to frighten those few Muggles who may have strayed near the site - and to make work for the Aurors. In that, it succeeded. _My_ priority was, and always has been, to keep the Wizarding World free of untalented Muggles. The Ministry always dealt too freely with those who had no knowledge of, or sympathy for, our powers. I still believe that it is better to scare them off with a harmless image conjouration than to meddle with their minds as _Obliviate_ does.

Hermione bit her lip to hold back her instinctive retort. She had always accepted the picture of the Death Eaters as uncaring practitioners of the Dark Arts, but if what he said was true (and she had taken the precaution of reading through the trial transcript since she had accepted his invitation - in stating that he had not lied he spoke the literal truth - his statements, like those of all the captured Death Eaters, had been made under Veritaserum), then her own actions to protect her Muggle parents would not stand scrutiny.

"What is your point?"

"You have talent and power. In the Old Times you would have been raised among us from birth."

"And what about my parents?"

He smiled, "They would have raised a changeling, never knowing the difference. A squib, or some Muggle orphan. That was how our world was kept secret for centuries - until Dumbledore's meddling changed it all."

She was about to protest when she remembered Dumbledore's story. If his sister had been given up as a child, raised in the Muggle world, would the last war have happened? "I see," she said. "You're offering me what? An olive branch?"

He looked momentarily startled. Then rallied. "I suppose I am. Your open acceptance of friendship with our family would go some way to convincing our world that the Malfoy's have learned our lesson."

She spread marmalade on the toast and took a bite. "Hmm," she mused when he said nothing more. "So do you want me to name my price?"

His lips twisted. "I do hope, Miss Granger, that this is a test. I told you back in the shop that I would not pay for your services in coin. I meant it. You would have my gratitude. And Draco's."

"Draco?" She frowned.

"Why did you think that I was in that particular shoe shop?"

"To buy shoes?"

He smiled, with both amusement and irony. "So naive. But you are in distinguished company. Even the Dark Lord made the mistake of thinking that I had only one agenda."

"To meet me, then. Why? What would you want with a ... Mudblood?"

Knowing exactly what it would do to her, under the table he ran the sole of his naked right foot up her leg, caressing her skin, pressing the edge of his foot into her flesh. He watched her struggle to regain her composure, her canine tooth bit hard on her lower lip. "That is precisely what I want," he said. "Your blood." His fingers had already closed tightly on her wrist, preventing her sudden start and attempt to pull away.

"No," he added. "Not literally. And not for myself. I confess that I did not expect our -interests - to coincide on this level."

His fingers were still tight on her arm, but his foot had moved to press her own foot against the carpet, emphasising his words.

"So what did you want?"

"An alliance." He released her and stood, turning away to gaze out of the leaded window, to the lawns and neat topiary hedges beyond. "They say that you are the most accomplished witch of your age," he said. "You know my reputation. I always want the best. In this case I want the best for my family. Specifically for my son."

"What?" He heard her gasp, but the tone might have been surprise or dismay. He did not turn.

"Draco. And his share of the Malfoy inheritance." Now he did turn to measure her reaction with calculating grey eyes. "I assure you, Miss Granger - Hermione - that Draco has inherited more than galleons from me. His - toes - are quite as long as mine."

For a moment she looked at him with an expression of unbelieving shock on her face. And then... she doubled over with delighted laughter. "Oh God," she choked, "You really mean that! Sometimes... sometimes I think that I understand the Wizarding world and then something like this happens and I don't understand it at all. Or maybe," she looked up at him, "maybe I just don't understand you Malfoys."

"But I understand you, Hermione. You have a - shall we say - a weakness - for lame ducks and lost causes. Is my son less worthy of your compassion than my house elf?"

She stopped laughing abruptly. "You're serious?"

"I do not make jokes about my family, Miss Granger."

"You want me to marry Draco?"

"Eventually, perhaps. But at least to befriend him. The war damaged him badly. He needs someone to help him to deal with people. To trust. To love."

"Like you?" She almost spat it out.

"Hermione, if I thought that I could give my son what he needs we would not be having this conversation. I am paying for my mistakes. I do not want Draco to do so. He needs someone of his own generation."

Her eyes narrowed. "How much?" she asked.

"What?"

"How much will you pay me if I agree to - befriend - Draco?"

There was a long silence between them. Lucius turned again to the window. "What do you expect me to say?" He murmured eventually, so low that she had to strain to hear. "Half my kingdom? My gratitude? My promise not to reveal your little fetish to the _Prophet_? My solemn oath not to put you under _Imperius_ and avoid payment altogether? An affair with me?"

She shivered at each question, as though struck by needles. It was as if he was reading her mind, though she knew that even had her shields not made that impossible he could not have done so without eye contact. And he had deliberately turned away. She had expected a straightforward cash offer, or a protest that payment would negate the bargain. To have her fears and desires laid out so coldly was a shock. Lucius Malfoy, consummate politician, arch manipulator, was playing her like a puppet and, even though she could feel the strings, she could not help but admire - and dance.

She swallowed, forcing her voice not to shake. "I think I should like you to buy me a dinner," she said. "At the best restaurant you know. You, me, and Draco. And then we can discuss this further."

He turned, and this time he did meet her eyes. "A deal, then? You really _are_ the cleverest witch of your age."

Coda

"...The wedding of their daughter, Hermione Jean Granger to Mr Draco Malfoy, and afterwards at The Manor, Malfoy Parva, Wiltshire. RSVP." Ron Weasley put the deckle-edged invitation down and grinned at his companion. "She did it then," he said. "Do you suppose that the Ferret and his Dad will ever realise that she planned this all along?"

Harry shook his head. "I doubt it," he said. "After all, she is the cleverest witch of our age."

~THE END~

**Author's Note:**

> This was an experiment in writing non-penetrative porn. With apologies for inserting uninteresting plot before and after the main event.


End file.
